


Firedance

by Hagar



Series: Project: Aftermath [8]
Category: Mighty Morphin Power Rangers
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-04
Updated: 2006-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-02 16:48:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hagar/pseuds/Hagar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's too late at night, and it's been a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Firedance

**Author's Note:**

> The lizard fable was given to me by walutahanga. Thanks, girl!
> 
> Loving gratitude to beta readers Roie and Camille.

“Ow!” Zack pulled back his hand from the kettle and shook it furiously. “That hurt,” he complained to the empty kitchen. “No fair.” He grabbed a towel and used it to hold the kettle as he poured the hot water into the mug. He had no idea what kind of tea it was – he just grabbed a random bag out of one of Trini’s boxes. The girl drank the oddest infusions sometimes, but he sniffed the bag and it smelt okay, so it would probably taste okay, too. He put the kettle back on the stove, picked his mug and carried it to the common room, where he’d left his book.

The common was deserted, obviously, as it was something like two-thirty in the morning. He’d really better get out of this insomnia phase fast, because it’d been a week since he last slept a whole night through. Either he woke during the night, or he couldn’t fall asleep for hours; and once he woke up, he couldn’t fall asleep again. So instead of tossing and turning in his bed and possibly waking up his roommates, he got up, stole one of Trini’s teabags - ‘cause the girl drank only the caffeine-free stuff - and sat down in the common with a good book; namely, Three Men in a Boat. Where was he? Right, chapter eleven.

He snickered into the remains of his tea as he read about Harris making breakfast. It was too much like Jason – last time the guy tried to boil eggs it ended with the eggs stuck to the ceiling. He skimmed over the historical musing and finished the chapter – and the tea – with a frown. Something was bugging him about Harris and Montmorency and the frying pan, and he couldn’t put his finger on it. He put the book down on the sofa and went back to the kitchen to prepare some more tea.

The kettle had cooled off in the meantime, so Zack refilled it and turned the stove on again. Trying Jerome’s method of making the kettle boil faster by not looking at it, he looked at every other thing in the room until his eyes landed on his burnt thumb, and he smiled. He mimicked reaching out for the stove and jumping back a couple of times. Yes, it did look like some kind of tribal dancing. He could probably make a proper choreography for it, if he tried. ‘Modern Men’s Dance to the God of Fire’ – should be funny.

The kettle whistled. Zack grabbed the towel, turned off the stove and discovered that he had forgotten to get a new teabag. He picked one out of the same box as before, not bothering to sniff it this time, dropped it in the mug and poured the hot water over it.

He put the kettle back on the stove. What was he thinking about when it whistled? Right, choreography He picked his mug and headed out of the kitchen. He couldn’t remember when was the last time he choreographed anything. Actually, come to think about it – he slowed down and paused as the thought hit him – when was the last time he had danced? He couldn’t remember. It had been a while – everything had been so hectic since they left –

\- Angel Grove. The going-away party. Two and a half months ago. That was the last time he had danced, and his heart hadn’t exactly been into it that night; but he had danced anyway, because he was leaving home and he would not let this party be the one party where the Zack-man didn’t show his moves…

… homesickness crashed down on him like it hadn’t since the first two weeks, when everyone constantly hung out by the phone, before things settled down and their new friendships became substantial. He hadn’t felt like dancing since home. He hadn’t thought of dancing all this while. Abruptly, he realized that he was standing in the hall, and resumed walking. So okay, that was odd. It couldn’t be the stress – he had made it through a year and a half of being a Power Ranger without the stress affecting him this way. Heck, he’d practically danced his way through life back then – he tap-danced from his locker to his classes, he adapted dance moves for battle use. And now, he hadn’t wanted to dance in almost three months. What…?

He put the mug on the coffee table, straightened and examined his burnt thumb again. He was going to get a blister on this one. He pushed aside the sofas and the beanbags, and cleared himself some space in the middle of the room. How did it go, now? Lean forward, leap backwards, spin around… damnit, now he was homesick again. He closed his eyes and stood still, letting the memories wash over him until he began to move again, his body finding its own moves, slow and uncoordinated as they were. It wasn’t dancing as he usually thought of it. What it was, though, he had no idea, so he let his body express what he already knew. If he’d let this flow, maybe he could sleep again.

His movement wasn’t so jarring, now; those were moves he knew like his own name – the old hiphop routine that was his trademark.

The next moment he stood absolutely still, hardly breathing. His mind had caught up with his body. This wasn’t the dance floor version of the moves – this was the battlefield one. The moves were similar, but he had never before used the battle version unless specifically intending to.

It scared him beyond what he could rationalize. The entire thing freaked him out for no reason whatsoever. He only wanted to make a funny dance, and somehow found himself reminiscing; and now his subconscious was playing games with him, and the entire setting was unnerving. He wasn’t fighting for his life, anymore. He slammed his fists down on his knees, bending over them.

What was _wrong_ with him tonight?

He forced himself to straighten, but now the flow was lost. He couldn’t continue from where he’d stopped before. He had to find the thread again. This time, though, his body didn’t supply the moves on its own. He closed his eyes against the room, flatly refusing to cry. He would not cry. He would dance it. Eyes still closed, he started matching motion and emotion. He examined this improvised routine as he had his old routine when he’d adopted it for battle. He searched for a way to connect the two routines, built the sequence in his head and then began executing it. This time he knew to expect the tension that came with the readiness to strike, but the suddenness with which it appeared was still alarming. This time he didn’t pause altogether at the change but rather stretched it, holding it, but the state refused to collapse unto itself. Then the memory unfolded.

_A lizard needs to keep warm to stay alive_. They had sat in the juice bar, way back in the early days. Jason made fun of him for using dancelike moves in combat, and Trini responded with a fable. _It stands on a rock in the sun to keep warm. But the rock is very hot, and the lizard has to lift first one foot, and then the other, so as not to get burned. To the observer it would seem that the lizard is dancing, but it is only trying to stay alive._

_Fire…_ If Zack’s eyes had been open, he would’ve closed them then. He wasn’t really ready to face this right now; all the tiredness from the past week made itself known. Forcing himself to break the stance, he also forced his eyes open. He collapsed on the sofa that was nearest to where he’d pushed the table. Using both hands to steady the mug, he took a sip. It was lukewarm, but drinkable. Maybe, if he got lucky, it was even chamomile; it wasn’t anything fruity, in any case.

There was still a third of the liquid left when it became just too cold. Zack swirled it for a moment, decided it wasn’t really worth it and placed the mug back on the table. He pushed himself up and stretched; the common looked like a rampaging rhino had blasted through it.

He rearranged the common so that it sort of resembled what it had looked before. He left the book where it lay and was tempted to leave the mug, too, but ended up returning it to the kitchen and washing it. He put it on the drying rack and looked at the clock, toweling his hands as he did so. Half past three. He could still get a couple of hours of sleep, if he hurried. He left the towel by the sink and made his way back to his room.

Later, he’d clearly remember walking from the room down the hall to the floor’s kitchen, but the distance from the kitchen back to his room seemed no longer than a single step; then his hand was on the doorknob and he was looking at the sign that hung on their door. Most everyone made door signs, and there was an informal competition over who had the coolest-looking door. He let go of the doorknob and traced the edges of the cardboard. They really needed to make a new one. The guys from room 204 were working on something that looked huge, and it was enough that Sven screwed their team over in debate – they were not going to let him have the coolest sign on the floor.

It would wait until morning, though.


End file.
